Page 12 of For Vengeance

"Our unsub either conducted personal surveillance of these men," Morgan said, tracing the air above particularly damning passages without touching the paper, "or had access to information about their activities that wasn't public knowledge." She straightened, wincing slightly as her back protested the movement. Hours bent over evidence tables had taken their toll, adding to the chronic pain from old injuries sustained during her incarceration. "The level of detail here goes beyond what even most patrol officers would know."

"Which suggests possible connections to law enforcement," Derik concluded, voicing what they'd both been thinking. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, further evidence of their long night and the tension that had settled between his shoulders since Cordell's threat. "Someone who had access to investigations that never resulted in formal charges. Maybe a detective who built cases that were rejected by the DA's office for insufficient evidence."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as Morgan considered the implications, the sound an irritating counterpoint to her racing thoughts. Every few seconds, one of the tubes would flicker, casting momentary shadows across the evidence laid out before them. She'd seen corruption inside law enforcement before—had been its victim when Cordell orchestrated her own wrongful conviction. She still carried the scars of that betrayal, both physical and psychological. The thought that their killer might be operating from within the system sent a chill down her spine, one that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

She absently traced one of her prison tattoos through her shirt sleeve—VERITAS, the Latin word for truth, inked during her third year behind bars. A reminder of what had been stolen from her and what she now sought with relentless determination. "We need to look at personnel records," she said decisively, straightening the cuffs of her shirt to cover the tattoo once more. "Specifically, recent departures from Dallas PD. Officers who worked in Santiago Heights or had contact with these victims. Maybe someone who left under questionable circumstances, someone with a heightened sense of justice that might have evolved into vigilantism."

Derik nodded, already gathering the evidence to return it to its secure storage. "I'll have the files pulled and set up in the conference room." He paused, studying her face with the perceptiveness that had made them effective partners. "You okay? You've barely stopped moving since Cordell's visit."

Morgan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of Cordell's name. "I'm fine," she replied automatically, the response honed by years of deflecting concern. Then, seeing the skepticism in Derik's eyes, she added more honestly, "As fine as I can be with Cordell's deadline hanging over us. But we focus on what's in front of us right now. One problem at a time."

The conference room they commandeered quickly transformed into a temporary war room, its walls soon covered with victim photos, timelines, and maps of Santiago Heights. Morgan had requisitioned a large whiteboard where she methodically listed potential suspects from the personnel files they'd requested. The air grew stale as the hours passed, tinged with the aroma of cooling coffee and the faint scent of dry-erase markers that clung to Morgan's fingers.

For the next several hours, Morgan and Derik sifted through personnel files, the stack diminishing gradually as they eliminated candidates who didn't fit their evolving profile. The rhythmic sound of turning pages and occasional notes being made provided the only soundtrack to their investigation. Occasionally, one would pass a file to the other with a murmured observation, their years of partnership evident in the efficiency of their collaboration.

The search parameters narrowed gradually: officers who had resigned or been terminated within the past year, those with disciplinary issues, those who had patrolled the Santiago Heights area. Morgan scrutinized each file with the laser focus that had earned her respect within the Bureau both before her wrongful conviction and since her return. Her ability to detect patterns, to see connections others missed, had only been sharpened by her time in prison, where observing human behavior had been a survival skill.

The overhead light cast harsh shadows across their faces as afternoon stretched into evening, neither agent willing to pause until they had made significant progress. Empty coffee cups accumulated at the edge of the table, physical evidence of their determination to push through exhaustion. The stack of potential candidates dwindled until one name rose to the top, highlighted by both agents independently.

"David Walsh," Morgan said, tapping her finger on the file spread before them. The personnel photo showed a man with unremarkable features, the kind that wouldn't stand out in a crowd but carried the hardened look of someone who had seen too much darkness. "Former patrol officer, resigned eight months ago after multiple excessive force complaints. His last incident involved severely beating a suspected drug dealer in Santiago Heights." She flipped through the disciplinary section, noting the escalating pattern of aggression. "Three complaints in his first five years, five more in his last two. He was on a trajectory toward termination when he resigned."

Derik leaned over her shoulder, his proximity familiar and comfortable after years of partnership. He smelled faintly of the sandalwood aftershave he favored and the coffee they'd been consuming steadily throughout the day. "'I can no longer participate in a system that releases the same predators back onto the streets I'm sworn to protect,'" he read from Walsh's resignation letter. "'Justice has become a revolving door that mocks the victims left in its wake. I entered this profession to make a difference, to protect the innocent. Instead, I find myself processing the same offenders repeatedly, watching as they return to victimize the same communities while the system that employs me stands by, hamstrung by politics and procedure.'"

Morgan felt a flicker of recognition at Walsh's words, an unwanted kinship with his disillusionment. How many times had she felt that same frustration, that same rage at a system that too often failed those it was meant to protect? After ten years wrongfully imprisoned, she understood the bitter taste of injustice better than most. The system's failures weren't abstract concepts to her—they were embodied in the decade stolen from her life, in the opportunities and relationships lost forever. She remembered the helpless fury that had consumed her during those early years behind bars, when she'd still believed that someone would recognize the mistake, that justice would eventually prevail.

She pushed the uncomfortable empathy aside, forcing herself back to the facts. "Walsh patrolled the area where Rodriguez operated," she continued, flipping to another section of the file. "His beat included the housing complex where Rodriguez was known to sell, and the community center near Rivera's apartment. He would have known about Rodriguez's activities, even the ones that never resulted in formal charges." She studied the arrest records attached to the file. "He brought Rodriguez in three times personally, but the charges never stuck. That kind of repeated failure wears on an officer."

"His profile matches our developing theory," Derik agreed, making notes on a legal pad beside him. His handwriting was precise, methodical—another small reflection of his meticulousness. "Former law enforcement, knowledge of local criminals, anger at the system's failures. The timing works too—eight months since resignation, plenty of time for disillusionment to fester into something more dangerous."

"And training to execute cleanly," Morgan added, thinking of the professional nature of the killings—no evidence left behind, single shots to the head, quick and efficient. "Dallas PD's firearms qualification standards would have given him the skills needed for the execution-style murders we're seeing." She paused, studying Walsh's personnel photo again. "His service record shows he was a marksman, consistently scoring above average in firearms training."

The unremarkable face in the photograph revealed little—a man in his mid-forties with close-cropped brown hair, unremarkable features, and eyes that revealed nothing to the camera. The kind of face that could blend into any crowd, be forgotten by witnesses moments after seeing it. Morgan had interviewed enough killers to know that the most dangerous rarely fit the popular image of monsters. Often, they looked entirely ordinary, their capacity for violence hidden behind forgettable facades.

"Let's find him," she said, closing the file with a sense of purpose. The sound was definitive in the quiet room. "Tonight. Before anyone else ends up with a gun to their head, writing out their sins before execution."

As they prepared to leave, gathering notes and securing sensitive files, Morgan's phone vibrated with an incoming message. She checked it reflexively, her expression hardening as she read the brief text. A reminder that while they hunted this vigilante killer, Cordell's clock continued to tick relentlessly. Five days remaining until his ultimatum expired. Five days to find a way to protect her father, Derik, herself, from a man whose reach extended into the darkest corners of the FBI. Five days before, she would be forced to make an impossible choice.

Two predators, two hunts. Morgan squared her shoulders, compartmentalizing as she'd learned to do in prison, where surviving each day had required the ability to focus solely on immediate threats while never forgetting the longer-term dangers. One problem at a time. For now, David Walsh.

"We should check local bars near Santiago Heights," Derik suggested as they headed toward the elevator. "His former partner mentioned Walsh had developed a drinking problem toward the end of his time on the force. Might be a logical place to start."

Morgan nodded, already mentally mapping the establishments frequented by off-duty officers in that part of town. "The Rusty Nail," she said decisively. "It's where most of the Santiago Heights patrol officers wind down after shift. If Walsh is still connected to his old life at all, that's where we'll find him."

As the elevator doors closed, sealing them in momentary privacy, Derik's hand found hers briefly, a gesture of solidarity that spoke volumes. No words were needed between them—both understood the pressure building from multiple directions, the sense that time was slipping away on all fronts. The touch lasted only seconds before they both resumed professional postures, but it steadied Morgan more than she would admit.

Every case required focus, but this one carried additional weight. A vigilante targeting criminals who had escaped justice resonated too closely with Morgan's own history, her own temptations toward vengeance rather than justice. As they prepared to hunt Walsh, she couldn't escape the uncomfortable awareness that under slightly different circumstances, after what Cordell had taken from her, she might have become someone very like the killer they now pursued.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Rusty Nail lived up to its name—a dive bar with peeling paint and neon signs that flickered intermittently in the growing darkness. The establishment sat on the edge of Santiago Heights, where the neighborhood's poverty gave way to slightly more respectable working-class blocks. Even the transition was stark—fewer security gates on the businesses, fewer vacant lots strewn with trash. The bar itself existed in a liminal space between worlds, frequented by off-duty cops and locals seeking cheap drinks without questions, a neutral ground where badges were checked at the door alongside civilian concerns.

Morgan pulled her sedan to a stop across the street, killing the engine but leaving the key in the ignition—a habit born of years in law enforcement, always prepared for a quick departure if necessary. The autumn night had brought a slight chill to Dallas, unusual for October but welcome after the punishing summer heat. A few scattered leaves skittered across the cracked pavement of the parking lot, carried by a breeze that smelled faintly of approaching rain.

"According to Walsh's former partner, this is where he spends most evenings since his forced resignation," Morgan said, her eyes fixed on the bar's entrance as another patron stumbled out, briefly illuminated by the stuttering neon. "Said he's become something of a regular fixture at the corner of the bar, nursing whiskeys and bitter memories."

Derik nodded, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with practiced vigilance. The streetlight above them cast harsh shadows across his face, deepening the lines that had formed around his eyes in recent years. "How do you want to play this?" he asked, his voice low. "Direct approach or feel him out first?"

Morgan considered the options, drumming her fingers lightly against the steering wheel. "Let's see what his baseline is before we start pressing. If he's our guy, he'll react to federal agents showing interest in the murders." She checked her service weapon by habit, ensuring it was secure in its holster but accessible if needed. The familiar weight against her side was reassuring, a constant in a world where little else remained predictable. "Follow my lead," she instructed, opening her car door. "Let's see how he reacts to us."

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